


That Certain Piece

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "If music be the food of love--play on.", F/M, Romance, an understanding heart, music from A Scandal in Belgravia, the Old Fashioned kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:20:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has given it much thought and has finally decided to play a very a special piece of music, hoping his listener is perceptive enough to understand the language of the piece.  As he tests how well she really knows him, he is also revealing a part of himself he has been reticent to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Certain Piece

**Author's Note:**

> (inspired by the piece Sherlock wrote for Irene Adler from ASiB; if I'm especially melancholy, that last scene where it plays in full, always makes me cry; the good kind of cry when you need to get it out of your system; and as those last notes of the violin fade, he is looking out the window, and my wish for him is to have someone love him and understand exactly what he was feeling when he wrote it; so here goes...)

It certainly wasn’t the first time Sherlock had played for her.  In fact, Tessa’s enthusiasm to hear him never abated from the moment she discovered (courtesy of John’s blog) that he played the violin.  Sherlock had actually found himself self-conscious about performing, for the first time since his childhood, when the time arrived to play for her.  He'd told himself it was because she was an artist, with keener sensibilities than most.  He had not been ready to admit it was also because she had come to occupy a special place among those—too few—he trusted.

His resistance proved unnecessary.  Tessa couldn’t have been a more receptive and gentle audience.  And it wasn’t long till she’d convinced him to play some of his own compositions for her.  Each time was easier than the last, and his level of comfort in performing for her matched well the many ways she had come to fill the, heretofore unrecognized, gaps in his life.

This time was different though.  He thought about it for quite a while, for to share  _this_  piece with her would be to reveal a part of himself he’d locked tight away.  Vulnerability, loss, loneliness, all the things he’d striven to make the world believe meant nothing to him.  All the things he hoped Tessa could understand from the music itself, and  _not_  think any less of him.

As had become their habit on Sunday afternoons (those which didn’t see Sherlock working a case)—Tessa studying her lines, or working to create a detailed biography of her character (“In order to play her truthfully,” she would tell him, “I have to know and understand her past at least as well as my own.”), or simply reading (she loved Tolkien and T.H.White, where Sherlock’s tastes tended to be clinical and dry in the extreme)—and Sherlock updating his website as needed, or checking current scientific journals and extracts (with an eagle eye on dissecting them for inaccuracies), or even just watching Tessa (discreetly, of course, marveling that she was  _still_  content with their arrangement)—the time passed quietly.  When the quality of sunlight through the front room windows began to take on the hues of early evening, Sherlock brought out his violin, rosining the bow, then checking it was properly tuned.

He began with a portion of Paganini’s Violin Concerto 1 Opus 6, and within a few stanzas, Tessa had closed her script, leaving it to rest on the sofa, drifting over to sit in the leather chair at hearthside.  She curled her bare feet under her, leaning back, relaxed, and watched Sherlock.  He appeared to be playing by memory, his eyes closed, the ebb and flow of his bowing a language all its own.  He paused at the end of the piece, and shuffled through the sheets on the music stand.

"Oh, I really liked that one, it was lovely." Tessa interjected, "Who wrote that?"

His eyes still focused on the music stand, he answered “Paganini.” then began to play again. She listened quietly, appreciatively, and Sherlock allowed himself to sink again into the music, no longer referring to the notes on paper as he played, having played the piece so often it flowed out without a thought. He finished with a little flourish, and Tessa said excitedly “I know that one. Bach, right?  It’s so reflective, so sad sounding, isn’t it?” 

"Indeed," replied Sherlock, "Sonata for Solo Violin, No. 1 in G Minor".  He was now as ready as he’d ever be, he supposed, and went directly to his own composition. He knew once the first note was played, he’d have no choice but to play on, and thus he was committed to the experiment—to see if she could divine the meaning of the piece.

He stood in front of the window, the light now starting to fade outside, remembering composing the piece, remembering the feelings, expressing what he’d felt then in the music now, but not letting it master him.  There were times it had; there were times he couldn’t get all the way through the piece, but those days were over now.  As he played, he realized he was glad he’d decided to finally share it with Tessa; and that even if she didn’t read in it what he hoped, the pain of that part of his life was nowhere near as keen as it once was.

The last notes fading, Sherlock paused, not yet ready to see her reaction.  This time Tessa was silent.  When he finally turned to face her, he saw her head bowed, her hair—unbound this day—falling like a curtain on either side of her face. She appeared to be looking at her hands resting in her lap, until she used the heel of each to wipe her cheeks.  She drew a very deep breath, then exhaled at length.

Tessa rose from her seat and came to face him. Was his heart racing as he awaited her reaction?  Yes, he realized, very much so, yet he managed to keep his face impassive. Her eyes were wide and he could see the tracks her tears had left behind; her gaze was soft and full of empathy.  ”That was…” she was searching for the right words, “that was beautiful, achingly beautiful, and……melancholy……and filled with such a…..  _yearning_.” She paused, shaking her head slightly in wonder, “I could actually  _feel_  it as though it were my own.” 

Sherlock bowed his head, closing his eyes, relieved. She’d heard it as he intended, but he was waiting for more.  She didn’t disappoint him.  ” _You_ wrote that piece.” she said, clearly realizing it in the moment.  He opened his eyes, asking “What makes you think that?”

Tessa shook her head again, her smile bittersweet, “My darling, amazing, beautiful Sherlock,” she said, laying a hand on his violin, “give me credit for knowing you at least this well. You’ve never played this piece for me before; I surely would remember if you had.  And, well, I……I could  _feel_   _you_  in the music.  The sadness you carry inside, thinking no one can see.  The ache for someone to recognize that you _do_  feel just as much as the next man.  The desire to put aside the armour you wear about your heart and be understood, at least from time to time.”  Tessa gently gathered the violin and bow from him, laying them on the cluttered desk. She took both his hands in hers.

"You’re not an island, Sherlock.  As much as you try to make the world think that you are."  Her words were immutable.  "And, my love, I’m not the only one who sees this.  Your friends do too, and despite what you think and how you treat them at times, once they really  _know_  you, you can’t drive them away.  You’re stuck with us, one and all.” 

Tessa punctuated her pronouncement by placing her hands on his chest, rising up on her toes so she could reach his face, and then kissing the corner of his mouth.  He’d grown to find this habit of hers damnably endearing.  When she laid her head against his chest, Sherlock had no choice but to embrace her.  It always seemed to go that way with Tessa—quietly slipping past his defenses every time.

They stood this way by the window, as it darkened outside, until she broke the silence, “Sherlock?”

"Yes, my dear?" he replied quietly.

"You know I’m a romantic at heart, and that colors how I see the world….” Sherlock nodded yes, waiting for the rest, "….and I could be way off the mark, but…."  Tessa paused; he could feel her trying again for the best way to say this, "but if I had to guess, I’d say there was a woman involved.  You don’t have to answer, I’ll understand if you don’t. But I have to say this:  whoever she was, whatever she did, she must have hurt you, and I’m so sorry for that."

Sherlock took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, ”Why would _you_  be sorry?” he said, smiling at the sincere sympathy he’d  _known_  she would be feeling, “It doesn’t matter now anyway; it’s in the past.”  

She moved her head to look up at him. “It matters to me. I would’ve done what I could to heal that wound.”  She laid her head against him again.

And there it was, what he’d expected her to say, though the response he gave was something that only just occurred to him. “Now then, don’t you think you  _already_  have?”  He felt her smile at that, and kissed the crown of her head.  He took her by the shoulders so he could face her while he spoke, “I think some supper is in order now.  I’m famished.  What shall it be?”

Tessa tilted her head flirtatiously, part of the ritual they’d established, “Whatever you wish, my darling.  So long as there will be a dessert.”

He chuckled warmly, following their pattern “Patience, my dear.”  but adding at the last “Good things  _do_  come to those who wait.”

Sherlock grabbed his suit jacket from the desk chair, while Tessa slipped on her shoes and collected her handbag.  As they crossed the threshold of 221B, they could hear the nighttime sounds of London ramping up around them.  Tessa contentedly slipped her hand in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, as they stepped lightly forward together, into whatever lovers’ adventure might lay in store. 


End file.
